


i feel the static

by jessalae



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Beast (The Magicians), Fluff, M/M, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Touchy-Feely
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-30
Updated: 2020-12-30
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:55:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,286
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28432770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jessalae/pseuds/jessalae
Summary: “Yeah,” Quentin says, toying with a blade of grass. If he looks at the lawn, he doesn’t have to look at Eliot. If he keeps his hands busy, they won’t do anything ill-advised. He feels warm from the inside out, here in the sun with his friends and magic, realmagic, all around them. He can just let things be good as they are, for now. There’s no rush.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 8
Kudos: 45
Collections: Peaches and Plums Stockings 2020





	i feel the static

**Author's Note:**

  * For [PotteredUp](https://archiveofourown.org/users/PotteredUp/gifts).



> Many thanks to Sylph for betaing! Title from "Everytime We Touch" by Cascada.

They’re out on the Sea, sprawled over a couple of overlapping picnic blankets, books open because in _theory_ they’re out here to study. In reality, Margo’s resting her head on Quentin’s folded-up sweatshirt with a notebook draped over her face so she can nap, and Eliot just opened a bottle of prosecco that he produced from… somewhere.

“Bubbles, Q?” he asks, holding out a champagne flute.

“Uh,” Quentin says, a little bit confused. “Sure?”

As he takes the glass, Eliot’s fingers trail over his wrist — by accident, probably. But all the hairs on Quentin’s arms stand up anyway. He takes a big sip of the prosecco — too big, bubbles up his nose. He coughs, wrinkles up his face to shake the fizzy feeling out of his sinuses.

Eliot laughs. “There’s no rush,” he says. “We’re just getting started.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says, toying with a blade of grass. If he looks at the lawn, he doesn’t have to look at Eliot. If he keeps his hands busy, they won’t do anything ill-advised. He feels warm from the inside out, here in the sun with his friends and magic _, real_ magic, all around them. He can just let things be good as they are, for now. There’s no rush.

* * *

They’re at the usual Friday night party at the Cottage, but only Eliot and Margo are actually partying. Quentin’s curled in an armchair in a corner, not hiding, exactly, but taking everything in. Letting waves of music and light and conversation wash over him, nursing a glass of wine, feeling the thump of bass in his chest and the hum of alcohol in his veins.

The flashing lights are blocked, for a moment, as Eliot dances into view. “You look sad,” he says, his words soft at the edges. “Don’t be sad. Come on.” He reaches down and sets Quentin’s wine aside, grabs both of Quentin’s hands in both of his.

“I’m not sad,” Quentin says. And it’s true. Especially now, with Eliot’s huge, warm fingers closed over his own, tugging gently to try and draw Quentin out of his seat. “I’m enjoying myself right here.”

“Are you really, though?”

“I really am,” Quentin insists.

Eliot rolls his eyes dramatically, but the smile he gives Quentin is small and warm and real. “Suit yourself, _introvert_ ,” he says, and lets Quentin’s hands go and twirls away, back to the dance floor or the bar cart or who knows. Quentin watches him go, rubbing the back of one hand with his other fingertips.

* * *

They meet in the hallway between classes, Quentin heading upstairs to Alchemy, Eliot and Margo making their way downstairs after Numerology. Eliot throws his arms wide when he sees Quentin approaching. “Quentin Coldwater,” he declaims from halfway down the hall. “My favorite first-year.”

“I thought Declan was your favorite first-year,” Margo says, raising an eyebrow as they draw closer. “Or Graham. Or Ryan. Or—”

“Shush, Bambi,” Eliot says. “No need to remind me of my many indiscretions in front of my _real_ favorite first-year.”

Quentin is simmering with nerves, they’ve got a lab practical in Alchemy today and it is _not_ his strong suit so he’s not really paying a lot of attention to what they’re saying. But when Eliot folds him into a hug, it’s like it all stops: the twitch in his right eye, the ache at the back of his skull, the buzz of other students and professors walking around them, the tick of the clock. He leans into Eliot’s grip, breathes in the subtle hint of his cologne, lets the pressure and warmth of Eliot’s arms squeeze the anxiety out of him.

“Come by the patio for dinner tonight,” Eliot says, his voice deep and soothing by Quentin’s ear. He lets Quentin go. “Chicken satay.”

“Sounds great,” Quentin says, trying to scrape his thoughts back together. Eliot pats him on the shoulder and he and Margo step seamlessly around Quentin and away, linking arms as they go.

* * *

It’s nearing one in the morning, and Quentin’s still at the table, piles of reference books and crumpled-up pieces of paper strewn in front of him, struggling as always with the motions for yet another simple illusion spell.

“Quentin?” Eliot asks from the doorway of the kitchen. He’s in a matching satin pajamas and robe set, putting a tea bag into a steaming mug. “I thought you went upstairs hours ago.”

“I did,” Quentin says, running a hand through his hair and scrubbing it over his face. “And then I went to the library for a while, and now I’m here, and I still don’t fucking have this figured out. So.”

Eliot sets the tea down in front of Quentin. “You need this more than I do,” he says, when Quentin frowns at him. “Let me see.”

He leans over Quentin’s shoulder, picking up one of Quentin’s sheets of notes, moving it aside to see another. Quentin blows uncertainly on the tea, feeling the heat of the water through the ceramic, feeling the heat of Eliot’s body hovering behind him. “Oh, this one,” Eliot sighs. “Yeah, it’s a fucking bitch and a half. Here, start it, I’ll correct as you go.”

Quentin stretches his aching wrists, then brings his hands up in front of him. Thumbs in then out, left ring finger crosses over, modified Popper 15, then twist—

“Like this,” Eliot says, his hand coming up to cradle Quentin’s, his thumb gently moving the angle of Quentin’s index finger. “More of a thirty degree angle than the usual forty-five.” His fingers circle Quentin’s wrists, guiding as Quentin moves through the motions, putting a tiny bit of pressure when Quentin nearly veers off course. “And then up— no, higher— before you come across—”

A little picture forms on the table in front of them, a tiny rose bush, blooming and brilliant. Quentin lets all his breath out in a rush, not even aware he’d been holding it. His senses tingle with the thrill of successful magic.

“ _Thank_ you,” he says. “Fuck. I owe you one.” 

Eliot lets go of his wrists and rests his huge hands on Quentin’s shoulders for a moment. “Just doing my duty as your upperclassman friend,” he says lightly, “but I’ll certainly take a favor in the future, if you’re offering.”

His voice is smooth, low. Quentin shivers and hopes Eliot doesn’t notice.

“Drink your tea,” Eliot says, patting him on the shoulder. “Then go to bed. Growing boys need their sleep.”

“I’m not—” Quentin turns in time to catch Eliot’s smirk as he heads back into the kitchen, presumably to make himself a replacement cup of tea.

* * *

The last of the revelers have drifted away from the Cottage (or retreated to some dark corner to sleep it off; Quentin thinks Todd might be under the piano). Margo’s upstairs with her conquest for the evening. Quentin would normally be in bed by now, but Eliot’s conquest for the evening didn’t pan out, nor did two potential replacements, and Eliot just looked so defeated that Quentin decided to stick around and try to help.

He’s an awful wingman. The most coherent thing he can say about Eliot, especially after a few glasses of wine plus two of Eliot’s consolation cocktails, is “I mean, just _look_ at him,” and somehow that wasn’t sufficient motivation for his fellow first-year boys tonight. So here they are, Eliot elbow-deep in bubbles at the sink, Quentin rounding up glasses from the patio and the entryway and the common room.

He’s got two glasses under each arm and one balanced with his chin when he walks into the kitchen, each step a Cirque du Soleil-level feat of acrobatics considering the booze singing through his body. He carefully maneuvers the glassware onto the counter.

“Maybe one more load,” he says. “The rest of it is mostly solo cups.”

“Of course,” Eliot sighs, disdainful as always about the very existence of plastic tableware. “I should teach you the pick-up charm for gathering trash without touching it. Remind me when I’m sober tomorrow.” He giggles to himself. “Or maybe the day after tomorrow.”

“Will do,” Quentin says, leaning back against the counter. Eliot’s sleeves are rolled up past his elbows, but one of them is slipping down, the purple cuff turning a deeper purple as soapy water wicks into it. “Here—” Quentin puts a hand on Eliot’s arm to hold him still for a second, then shoves the offending sleeve further up.

“Thank you,” Eliot says. “Actually, can you roll it one more time?” He wiggles his foam-covered fingers. “Wet hands.”

Quentin does so, folding the soft fabric up over Eliot’s bicep. Eliot’s skin is warm and pale and smooth.

“My favorite,” Eliot says fondly, and leans over a bit and kisses Quentin on the top of his head. You know, like how you might kiss a toddler who tied their shoes by themselves. Or maybe — maybe like someone might kiss their spouse of twenty years, when they’ve developed a whole private language of touches and gestures. Quentin’s not sure, he’s too drunk to decide. “Bring me that last load of glassware and then go sleep. I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Yeah,” Quentin says. His voice sounds a little lost, even in his own ears.

“Oh, and Q?” Quentin turns back and finds Eliot’s eyes burning into his. “Thank you. For staying with me. You’re sweet.” 

“Yeah,” Quentin says again, smiling.

* * *

Quentin’s walking back to the Cottage, flying high — he fucking _aced_ that midterm, got the highest score of anyone but Alice (and she’s a curve-ruiner, she doesn’t count). The sun is shining, too warm for mid-October. It’s a Tuesday, so they won’t celebrate with a party (Eliot and Margo _would_ , but Quentin won’t let them). He’ll just have to find some other way to keep chasing this feeling.

Eliot looks up when he walks in, unfolds himself from his seat in the common room. “Someone’s cheerful,” he says, half-smiling at Quentin.

Quentin sets his messenger bag down by the stairs and tucks his thumbs into his pockets, unable to contain his smug grin. “Someone scored an eighty-three on their Magical History exam.”

Eliot’s eyebrows shoot up. “In March’s class? _That_ is worth being cheerful about. His tests are killer.” He walks towards Quentin, a smile spreading over his face. “Look at you. You’re _glowing_.”

“Am not.”

“Are too.” Eliot grabs Quentin’s hand out of his pocket, steps back to arm’s length, pulls Quentin so Quentin clumsily slides past him as Eliot gracefully steps the other direction. “You look like the nerd cat who got the good-grades cream.” He shifts his weight somehow so Quentin twirls on the spot — Quentin feels a tingle of magic, suspects the aid of telekinesis — then pulls and Quentin comes twirling back in, right into Eliot’s personal space, Eliot’s arm curved around his shoulders, still holding his fingers tight.

Quentin’s so fucking happy, and a little dizzy and disoriented from being manhandled into sudden ballroom dancing, and it just seems like the logical next step to push up onto his toes and kiss Eliot.

Eliot freezes, and Quentin freezes too, but he doesn’t pull away, staying stubbornly up on his toes with his lips pressed softly to Eliot’s. And Eliot doesn’t pull away either, or let go of Quentin’s fingers. His other hand comes to rest gently on Quentin’s waist, and finally his lips move under Quentin’s, pressing closer, shifting to move a tiny bit, not quite opening, but close.

They reach what feels like a natural stopping point and Quentin lowers himself down slowly, trying to read Eliot’s expression, his heart pounding.

Eliot stares back at him, eyes searching, and then clears his throat and says, “Well. That was unexpected.” He still hasn’t let go of Quentin’s hand. His other fingers are still gently wrapped over Quentin’s hip.

“Was it really?” Quentin asks.

“No,” Eliot says slowly, still searching Quentin’s face. “I guess it kind of wasn’t.” He lets go of Quentin’s hand, letting Quentin’s arm unwind from its strange mid-dance position, but he brings his newly freed hand right to Quentin’s waist. “There’s a reason I didn’t make the first move, Q, and it’s not because I’m not interested. I’m not—” He pauses, thinking, his tongue sneaking out to wet his bottom lip. “I’m not great at anything but short-lived flings, and I wouldn’t want that with you.”

“I wouldn’t want that either,” Quentin says, and Eliot’s face falls. “But I think you’re not giving yourself enough credit,” Quentin adds. “You’re good at— a lot of things. Maybe you just haven’t. Practiced this one enough?”

Eliot looks uncertain, and Quentin feels the moment slipping through his fingers. “Look,” Quentin says hurriedly. “It’s fine, if you don’t want to, obviously you can say no for whatever reason, but we could— could you do me a favor? Could we try?”

A little half-smile twitches over Eliot’s face. His grip on Quentin’s body tightens just a bit, his hands warm through the soft fabric of Quentin’s t-shirt. “I think you already owe me a favor,” he says, “so then you’d owe me two.”

“I’m good with that,” Quentin says. Eliot’s posture has started to change. His weight is shifting, drawing Quentin closer, his head very gradually leaning down. “Pretty sure you could figure out something to do with them.”

Eliot smiles, broad and sweet and a little bit wicked. “Pretty sure I could,” he murmurs.

He closes the gap between them and kisses him, firm but not pushy. Confident. Determined. Quentin leans into his touch, into the pressure of his hands and the solid warmth of his chest and the slide of his lips, and knows that this time, Eliot definitely means it the way Quentin wants him to.


End file.
